


The Concours International Combiné 3*

by CPFics



Series: The Muskequeers [8]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Agender Character, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Sports, Alternative Univers - Eventing, Genderfluid Character, Horses, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Other, references to real people and events, warning: misgendering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 06:35:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1972572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CPFics/pseuds/CPFics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos, Aramis and Porthos are competing at Barbury International Horse Trials. Aramis has a nasty fall and Porthos and Athos offer their support.</p><p>Basically I spent a whole weekend at Barbury and got caught up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Concours International Combiné 3*

**Author's Note:**

> Once more just to be clear, please be aware that this fic contains one instance of a minor character misgendering a major character.
> 
> Also this was totally going to be a smut fic but it just wasn't happening.

“Athos de la Fère?” The steward called over to them from the exit of the warm-up. They nodded at her to show they’d heard, and pulled up their horse, Grimaud, as Aramis trotted over to them on Bazin - as they’d both just made it onto the top twenty-five, one place apart, they were next to each other in the running order.

They’d been lucky with the weather: there’d been a very small amount of rain the day before, but it had barely been enough to wet the grass. The hard ground might have been a little slippery, especially within splash-range of the lakes, but everyone would be using studs, so there would be no real issues. In addition, there was a strong and almost constant breeze and just enough clouds that the riders shouldn’t get too hot in their long-sleeved shirts and body protectors.

“Good luck,” Aramis said, reaching over to give Athos a quick kiss. The unconventional relationship between the two of them and their friend and teammate Porthos was well known within the equestrian world, though thankfully eventing apparently was not considered interesting or mainstream enough by the tabloids or gossip mags for word of it to have spread much further than that. “Go get ‘em.”

“You too,” said Athos, kissing nem back. They encouraged Grimaud into a quick trot and headed out towards the starting box. They circled nearby a few times before another steward beckoned them into position. He counted them down as Grimaud stamped impatiently, and then they were off, Grimaud shooting out towards the first fence as if the hounds of hell were at his heels. Athos had to hold him back a little, or he’d be exhausted before they’d finished the course.

Athos had got a face-full of brush at the Owl Hole and messed up their approach to the Bears Corner, meaning they’d had to take out a stride, but as they cleared the skinny coming out of the St James’s Place Water with only the slightest hesitation on Grimaud’s part and headed up the hill towards Stonehenge, they were feeling fairly confident.

It was as they approached the ROR Hedge, passing right by a loud-speaker, that the commentator gave a shocked exclamation:

“And René d’Herblay has fallen! He’s come down in the St James’s Place Water!”

“Ne,” Athos corrected reflexively under their breath as they landed on the far side of the hedge, taking a chunk of brush with them. They and Aramis had never gone to any great lengths to hide who they were, but still there was a significant lack of understanding among commentators, spectators and other riders alike. Athos resisted the urge to turn around and see what was happening, and tried to ignore the worry coiling in their stomach and the sound of the vet’s car starting up behind them. Aramis often took risks when riding and fell often as a result, but ne had a tendency to bounce rather than break.

They let the reins out a little, at last allowing Grimaud to go as fast as he wished. They forced themself to focus on the jumps ahead of them, keen to finish the course and find out what had happened to Aramis as quickly as possible.

Porthos was waiting for them at the finish with Treville’s boxer dog, Buster, having done his ride earlier in the afternoon and set the fastest time of the day.

“Where’s Aramis?” they called as soon as they had brought Grimaud down to a trot. “Is ne alright? I heard the vet’s car start up…”

“Yeah, we didn’t need them in the end, though, Bazin’s fine. Aramis dislocated nir shoulder, they picked nem up in the ambulance, but they just took nem back to the lorry, not the medical tent.”

Athos nodded and turned Grimaud towards the lorry park, Porthos and Buster jogging to keep up next to them. When they reached the distinctive blue lorry with its huge fleur-de-lis motif on the side, they leaped from Grimaud’s back and threw the reins to Constance, their groom and driver, and hurried up the steps into the lorry’s living area.

Aramis was slumped on the sofa, wearing only a pair of plain tracksuit trousers and a towel around nir shoulders. Nir left arm was strapped against nir chest and nir hair was still dripping. D’Artagnan, who’d competed in the two-star event the day before, and their trainer, Treville, were sitting with nem.

Athos crossed the lorry in one long stride, cupped Aramis’ jaw and crushed their lips together. They pulled away a second later, dropping to a crouch in front of nem, their hand never leaving nir face.

“Are you okay?” they asked as Porthos sat down heavily next to Aramis.

“Just a bit sore,” Aramis said, closing nir eyes and leaning into Athos’ touch. “And perhaps a little shaken.”

Athos sighed, relieved, and drew nem close, holding nem tight as ne leaned into them. After a few moments, Athos stood up and pressed another, gentler kiss to Aramis’ forehead, before heading back out to help Constance untack and groom Grimaud. Aramis sat back and let nir head drop onto Porthos’ shoulder.

\--

“Congratulations, Porthos,” said Treville as he returned from watching the final times and scores of the day go up on the scoreboard. He dropped six cartons of chips and a large bottle of Diet Coke onto the table. “Best time of the day and no penalties. You ended up in seventeenth. Athos, you got three-point-two time faults and finished in twenty-first. Well done.”

“Who won?” Athos asked as they slid into the seat next to Aramis and pulled a carton of chips towards them.

“Take a guess,” said Treville, pouring himself a cup of coke.

“No way.” said Porthos. “He didn’t!”

Treville nodded.

“He did. Third year in a row. Andrew Nicholson on Avebury.”

“Huh. Well. Well done him. Maybe he’ll actually manage Badminton one of these days.” said Porthos, chuckling.

They chatted easily as they ate, discussing the course and the things d’Artagnan would have to work on if he wanted to take on the three-star next year. Aramis, though, mostly stayed quiet and only picked at nir chips.

Treville, noticing the way ne slumped against Porthos, and Athos’ hand resting on nir knee, and recognising the look of a person in need of comfort, pushed his empty chip carton away from him.

“D’Artagnan, Constance, what do you say to one last evening in the Outside Chance?” he said. They both nodded and went to put their boots on. Treville leaned over the table and laid a hand on Aramis’ good shoulder. Ne looked up at him.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Aramis,” he said. “We all have falls sometimes. You did a great job in the dressage and showjumping, focus on that.” 

He stood up, nodded to Porthos and Athos, and followed d’Artagnan and Constance out into the evening cool.

As soon as the door closed behind Treville, Aramis curled against Porthos’ chest, letting him pull nem into his lap. Ne kissed him as if he was the only thing stopping nem from drowning. Athos reached up to stroke nir hair and ne reached out to them, pulling them closer and kissing them as well.

“What’s wrong?” Porthos asked, when ne finally pulled away and buried nir head in his shoulder. Aramis had fallen off and been eliminated before, and from bigger events than this - it didn’t usually bother nem this much.

Aramis sat back a little, resting nir hand on Porthos’ chest.

“I was winded when I hit the water,” ne said at length. “And my body protector inflated so I floated, but somehow I’d ended up face down. There was a second where I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, and for a moment I thought I was going to die there, on my own.”

Ne dropped forward until nir forehead was resting against Porthos’ chest, near nir hand, and huffed out something vaguely resembling a laugh.

“And the last thing I’d hear would be Mike Tucker misgendering me.”

“Hush,” said Porthos, pulling nem closer with a sympathetic sigh, and Athos leaned into them both, wrapping their arm around Aramis as well. They reached up to kiss nir temple.

“I love you both,” Aramis said quietly.

“We know. We love you too,” said Porthos, none of them having had any doubts about speaking for each other on that matter for a long time. Aramis sighed and cuddled closer to Porthos’ chest, while Athos rubbed soothing circles over nir bare back and Porthos reached one arm around Athos to include them in the embrace.

When Aramis looked in danger of falling asleep in Porthos’ lap, Athos and Porthos helped nem to nir feet and guided nem up the ladder to their shared bunk over the cab. They made sure ne was comfortable first, settling nem on nir back and propping nem up with pillows where necessary. Athos curled against nir right side, while Porthos lay a few inches away on nir left, one arm thrown over nir stomach. They had all fallen asleep like that, still dressed, by the time Treville ushered d’Artagnan and Constance quietly into the lorry a little while later, and eventually turned out the lights.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: No offence meant to Mr Tucker as obviously I have no idea how he would react to trans people or pronouns or whatever. He might be very good. Maybe it was just a mistake made in the excitement of seeing someone fall. This is why I don't write RPF.
> 
> Also belated to congratulations to Andrew Nicholson on his very real Barbury hat-trick.


End file.
